


Rimes of Ancient Mariners

by journalxxx



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:17:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journalxxx/pseuds/journalxxx
Summary: Miscellaneous Stancest drabbles and one-shots.





	1. Hearts and Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a deleted scene from the [end credit montage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKUpswi7fMc).

"I can't believe you, Sixer! That was the most pitiful attempt-"  
  
"Well, what did you expect me to say after that dreadful pick-up line you dropped at-"  
  
"She left after _you_ came in, not me. Seems pretty obvious to me who screwed it all up-"  
  
"It was a stupid idea to begin with, Stanley! Not even the women of this weird town are so nutty to fall for cheesy twin shenanigans!"  
  
They stopped talking at the same time, suddenly aware of the loud silence surrounding them and of several unimpressed glares from the passersby. They cleared their throats in unison, straightening up their outifts and standing up from the bench.  
  
"...How about we go home now, Poindexter?"  
  
"Good idea."

 

"Anyway, that _clearly_ proves that not even crossing a goddamn Stargate can help you build some charm and self-confidence with the ladies."  
  
"I'll have you know that I was once banned from an entire dimension because the Princess of its most powerful realm planned to call off a crucial political marriage when she fell head over heels for me!"  
  
"Pfffft, yeah, sure. And how did you manage to win her heart? Rolled a 38?"  
  
"Dumb luck and cheeky attitude won't win you everything, Stanley. Seduction mostly relies on subtle hints, mutual understanding, careful observation-"  
  
"No offense, but reading the room has never been your best skill. Remember that time at the school party-"  
  
" _Yes Stan_ , I do remember it and I would be glad if you stopped bringing it up once every three days. It was over fourty years ago, you may have remained the same overconfident knucklehead you were back then, but I have learnt a few things in the meantime."  
  
"Oh yeah? Then what was wrong with my technique, Prince Charming?"  
  
"The choice of gift, for example. You came up with the idea of presenting flowers and you show up with a _daisy_? It's one of the most common and unimpressive flowers on the planet, you could have just picked it in a random grass patch to spare the exp- wait..."  
  
"Lil' Gideon has the most beautiful and flourishing plants of the town, trust me, it's a waste to just leave them there to wither under all those whiffs of hair spray."  
  
"Argh! You see what I mean? You have no tact or consideration, no-"  
  
"Right, right, how about yours? What's so special about that... whatever fancy flower that is."  
  
"It's a carnation, and... ah, whatever."  
  
Stan frowned at the sudden interruption of what was a perfectly normal and evenly toned conversation for them. His brother was busy fumbling with the door keys and looked genuinely irked all of a sudden. It was surprising that he had managed to annoy Ford without noticing, he was usually perfectly aware of exactly how obnoxious he was.  
  
"I'll be in the basement if you need me. Don't drink the milk in the blue gallon in the fridge, it's not from a cow."  
  
Before Stan could even muster a reply, Ford had already punched the code in the vending machine and stormed downstairs.

 

"Yes?"  
  
Ford didn't even bother looking at the elevator doors quietly opening behind him, too engrossed in scribbling away in his new journal. He didn't get a reply, but there could be no doubt as to the identity of the visitor now that the twins had left.  
  
"Stan? What is it?"  
  
He inhaled sharply as warm lips latched on his neck unexpectedly, strong arms wrapping around his own to effectively trap him.  
  
"A yellow carnation, eh?"  
  
Stan had managed to brush aside Ford's irritation for a good few hours before giving in to the curiosity. How typical of his nerdy brother to drop a secret code into every action or situation, even something as trivial as a flirting challenge. Good for Stan that he had listened to Mabel's enthusiastic dating lessons, including something about flower language and other romantic whatnots. He had spent a good thirty minutes fiddling with the self-proclaimed "smart" phone the twins had pestered him to stea- buy, but in the end he had managed to open Goober and find the necessary information. Which had left him affronted and regretful at the same time.  
  
"Not fair, Poindexter. No wonder we got the cold shoulder, you weren't even trying."  
  
Ford snorted, keeping up the stern attitude even though his brother's kisses were effectively chipping the tension away.  
  
"I told you I didn't want to do it. I asked you please not to drag me into your questionable past-times. I swear I'll just show the goddamn tattoo to the twins myself if you keep using it to blackmail me into these ridiculous-"  
  
A soft yet lingering kiss cut off his remarks. Ford briefly considered not to let his brother off the hook so easily, but few seconds later he was already returning the kiss without really noticing. In fact, he would have quickly decided to drop the topic entirely if Stan hadn't drawn away first.  
  
"All right, I got it. Sorry. No more chicks hunting. Can't promise anything about the tattoo though, that's just priceless..."  
  
Ford laughed, turning more fully toward his brother to return the embrace.  
  
"What was that even about, Stan? I would like to hope you weren't really trying either."  
  
"Eh, you know. You still spend most of the day always locked down here, and I don't think I've ever seen you taking a proper walk around town. Figured you should try and make friends with the townsfolk..."  
  
"By harassing women relaxing in the park with bad pick-up lines?"  
  
"Worked for me! And in thirty years I wasn't even once reported to the cops!"  
  
"You're undignified."  
  
"The noises you make when I grab your nuts are undignified."  
  
An undignified whimper left Ford's mouth as his brother proceeded to demonstrate his claim.  
  
"Dear God, why do I even talk to you?"  
  
"Because I don't need dice, charisma points or fancy trinkets to get your booty, Sixer."  
  
Ford grinned and firmly grabbed Stan's other hand, which was again moving to prove its point. He let it free soon after though, and his head dived in the crook of Stan's neck to land a challenging nibble on his collarbone.  
  
"We'll see."


	2. Strings and Ties

"What the FUCK, Stanford?"  
  
Stan run as quickly as he could on the rough terrain of the bay, shouting to the sitting shape of his brother more out of relief than frustration. At least the moron had managed not to kill himself, you learned to be grateful for all the little gifts life gave you.  
  
"One moment I look away, one moment! I swear I'm putting you on a leash, Ford!"  
  
He nearly tripped on a particularly sneaky and sharp rock - holy Moses, good thing Ford hadn't landed on that - as he looked up to the small sanctuary they had been exploring until five minutes before. He pinpointed the small hole that must have been the unprotected exit Ford had fallen from, looming at a scary height above them. If the face of the cliff had been vertical, instead of sloping to the shore with a steep but viable angle, his brother would have been doomed.  
  
Ford waved at him in what Stan supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but as he approached him he could see his other arm was oddly stiff against his side, and a good portion of his face was tinged with red. He cursed under his breath and quickened his pace, finally reaching Ford and kneeling beside him while he was wiping the blood off his face with his sleeve.  
  
"You alright?"  
  
Stan didn't hear Ford's reply, courtesy of his hearing aid working only half of the time since they had entered the area where the magnetic disturbance Ford had droned on about for an hour was at its strongest. Luckily Ford was well enough to remember to add a visible nod and a warm pat on Stan's back to convey his message. At a glance, the cut on his temple looked rather shallow despite the copious amount of blood, but the grimace on Ford's face didn't bode well.  
  
"How's your arm? Can you walk?"  
  
Ford pulled him closer and positively shouted in his ear, judging by how clearly Stan managed to hear him this time.  
  
"I'm fine! Let's go back to the boat!"  
  
Stan grumbled in assent and helped him to his feet, ignoring his brother's protests as he slipped Ford's good arm above his own shoulders, mostly to support him but also to make absolutely sure he didn't accidentally wobble into another abyss. His annoyance came back easily as they made their way to the boat and Stan launched himself into a forcedly one-sided conversation.  
  
"Well, that was unbelievably stupid even by your standards, what were you even looking at? I swear I should start keeping a journal too, 'Dumb ways Dr. Stanford Filbrick Pines, PhD, got hurt'. At least when I get into scrapes, it's because something is actually trying to kill me, like a giant squid. But no, you manage to fuck yourself up in ways us mere mortals wouldn't even imagine. Like that time you literally threw yourself overboard in the middle of the Arctic Ocean to fish out those notes of yours, which were so goddamn important that apparently you didn't even think of binding them together with a piece of rope. Oh, and how about when you nearly got your arm chopped off after you stuck it in the mouth of that unicorn whale to pull out- argh!"  
  
Stan startled slightly, the hearing aid suddenly emitting a brief, high-pitched noise for no apparent reason. A few seconds later, his brother's voice and the rumbling background noise of the sea informed Stan that the blasted thing was finally working again.  
  
"...Called narwhals and my arm was perfectly safe, since they don't have teeth."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, but it still tried to stab you after you got that dagger thingy out of its gums."  
  
"Oh you can hear me then! Have you been ignoring me the entire time?"  
  
"Have you been nitpicking the entire time even though you knew I couldn't hear you?"  
  
Ford grunted but didn't reply, which in itself was a sign of moderate discomfort. His posture was indeed unnatural, his arm hunched awkwardly and perfectly still. Stan eyed it worriedly as he helped Ford onto the boat and straight to his bed.  
  
"You think it's broken?"  
  
"No, not broken, it doesn't hurt that much. Probably dislocated."  
  
While Stan fetched the first aid-kit, some water and towels, Ford shed his coat and sweater with painstaking slowness, contorting himself as much as his unharmed limbs allowed so that he could simply slide his clothes along his right arm without moving it. The disconnected bone was clearly visible, sticking sorely from the round shape of Ford's shoulder. Stan wasn't new to that sort of blunt injuries, but it had been more than a decade since he had had to fix one himself.  
  
"I think I remember how to put that in place, but maybe we should get back to the doctor in town, it isn't far."  
  
Ford huffed in annoyance, glaring at his shoulder as if he was trying to force it back in its proper shape through sheer contempt.  
  
"No, there's no need for that, I can do it myself. Hell, it's the fourth time by now, the joint is just ridiculously loose at this point. Get me some gauze, will you?"  
  
In the five seconds Stan took to fish out some from the box, Ford had shifted to a rather strange position, half-lying on the bed, his right knee bent so that he could clasp his hands in front of it.  
  
"Tie my wrists together, please."  
  
"...What?"  
  
"I said tie my wrists together - don't look at me like that - and sit on my foot. If you don't mind."  
  
Stan opened his mouth to reply, but he ultimately thought better of it and complied silently. He watched with equal measures of fascination and concern as Ford took a deep breath and tilted his head backwards, visibly relaxing his upper body and letting his shoulders roll forward. He remained still for a moment, then he started leaning backwards by tiny increments, slowly extending his arms.  
  
"That's not how I remember doing it."  
  
"There are a few methods." Ford spoke lowly, staring at the top bunk intently as he focussed on the bizarre manoeuvre. "This one is particularly useful when you're on your own and happen to be-"  
  
He flinched and inhaled sharply, Stan's eyes narrowing in sympathy as he saw the dislocated joint snap back in place, smoothly but probably not painlessly. He unhooked his hands and lay down fully with a sigh while Stan busied himself with applying an ice pack to the sore limb and prop it up with an extra pillow.  
  
"Handcuffed. Or similarly restrained."  
  
"Uh-huh. Wish I had known about it in Mexico."  
  
"You can untie me, by the way."  
  
"I haven't heard the safeword yet though."  
  
The comment may have been a tad insensitive given the situation, but Ford's glare was legendary and completely worth it. Stan flashed a remorseless grin before indulging his brother, then he fetched some peroxide and cotton and set to clean the small cut.  
  
"So. Still no comment about all this?"  
  
"About what?"  
  
"This." Stan waved at Ford with a broad, all-encompassing gesture and an inquisitive glance. "You literally walked off a goddamn cliff, Ford, I saw it."  
  
"...Did I?"  
  
"You don't remember?" Stan took another good look all round Ford's head, to make sure there weren't any other bumps he had missed. The damage didn't seem to justify Ford blanking out the whole thing.  
  
"Not entirely. I remember searching the building with you, and I do remember crashing down the scarp and waiting for you at the bottom, but I'm not quite sure how that got to happen."  
  
"You did look a bit out of it, actually." Stan scratched his head perplexedly, his frown matching his brother's. "After we split up, I was still keeping you in sight since I couldn't hear shit, and at one point you just went off in a random direction with this strange, distracted face. Not that you don't do that normally, but it looked a bit weird that time. I asked you if you had found anything, but you didn't even turn to look at me and kept walking to the exit. I called you a couple times and then I got that something was wrong, because even from back there I could see the opening led to a freakin' pit, but you just kept walking past as if you didn't even notice the floor ended there. I didn't make it in time to grab you. It was pretty fucking scary, not gonna lie."  
  
"Hm, I definitely don't remember this." Ford's hand lay a few apologetic caresses along Stan's thigh, his expression tightening in concentration. "We read the inscriptions, took a look at the upper gallery - I think it was some sort of matroneum. I noticed there were a lot of mirrors that looked like they had been cleaned recently. Then... I think I heard some music, a violin if I'm not- oh!"  
  
"Music? I thought the place was empty, we didn't see a living soul."  
  
"Ah yes, that must have been it! You weren't affected because you couldn't hear it, it must have been a näcken. They told us several people have been disappearing from the town for a few days in the last month."  
  
"The hell is a näcken?"  
  
"They're water spirits, they usually take the semblance of men playing the violin to draw their victims in dangerous spots, usually near ponds or rivers. All the villagers returned safely to their homes after a while, so we may assume it isn't inherently hostile, but we may have angered it particularly by trespassing in its - what is it?"  
  
Stan had stopped his work and was staring at his brother with pure, unrestrained disbelief. He articulated his next words very slowly and carefully, as if highlighting a particularly important point.  
  
"You walked straight off a cliff because a beautiful young man serenaded you with a violin."  
  
"That's- I didn't say it was beautiful or young, I didn't see it, I'm not even sure that was the - oh, for heaven's sake..."  
  
Ford's weak protests were swallowed by Stan's roaring laughter, which he definitely dragged on way longer than necessary, even making a show of wiping non-existent tears from his eyes.  
  
"They're always young and beautiful, Sixer. Always." He sniffed, glancing dramatically out of the porthole, pulling out his best impersonation of a heartbroken lover. "Can't believe it. Can't fucking believe it."  
  
"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"  
  
"Nope." Stan stuck a patch over the clean cut and snapped the kit close, reasonably reassured after the whole ordeal. If Ford had an inkling about what they were dealing with, he was sure he would come up with an effective plan to face it. In the meantime, Stan would just have to keep him under strict surveillance to make sure he didn't wander off on his own. Not an unrewarding task, all in all. "And neither will Mabel, I bet. Just wait until our laptop decides to turn on again..."  
  
"There's no need to tell - mph."  
  
Stan cut off the pointless reply by unceremoniously wiping his brother's face with a wet towel to wash away the dried blood. While he was busy sputtering, Stan casually swiped his free wrist and tied it to the bedpost with the same strip of gauze they had used earlier.  
  
"Right, so here's what we do. You don't get to stand up until I've made you some sort of sling for that arm, Houdini. I'll drive the boat offshore for the night, just to be sure that the charming violinist doesn't sneak on board to whisk you away while I'm not looking. I'll be back in ten minutes."  
  
"May I just point out that pinning my only good arm is both a very poor idea and an incredibly cheap shot?"  
  
"Why? It's not like you gotta do anything, and you never use your left to jerk off anyway."  
  
"Have I ever told you that your bedside manners are atrocious?"  
  
"Eh, never mind, the side isn't the part of your bed I want to stay in anyway."  
  
"...Right. That fulfills the daily quota of insufferable jokes I'm willing to put up with. Fuck off. And take your hearing aid off too!"  
  
"Aye aye, captain."


	3. Forma Mentis

Stanley Pines was in his bed. The clock on his nightstand marked almost one in the morning. He didn't know why he had woken up, but more importantly he didn't know why he had been asleep in the first place. It was way too early to be in bed unless he was sick, which he didn't feel like. He couldn't remember what might have convinced him to retire so early and possibly lose an entire night of work, and that pissed him off even more. He groggily sat up, slipping dentures and glasses in their proper places, pawing around the floor to find his slippers. The night was still young, he decided, he may as well put a few hours to good use on the portal. He didn't bother fetching the lantern or switching on the lights as he made his way to the vending machine, he knew the layout of his own house well enough to navigate it effortlessly even in perfect darkness. Or so he thought, before he bumped his knee and toes into unknown objects three times in the space of a minute. He should really have a talk with the kids in the morning about moving furniture around and leaving their stuff in the way. He probably wouldn't though. Those noisy pipsqueaks were far too endearing for his own good, and Mabel in particular had that special, beaming smile that made his tiny, shrivelled heart of sixty-three-year-old swindler positively swell. He mechanically punched the code in the vending machine, climbed down the stairs, typed the other code in the control panel of the elevator, waited for it to get to the bottom floor, stepped into the basement, turned on the lights of the control room while suppressing a loud yawn. He felt strangely subdued that night, his brain still rather fuzzy and slow from the short slumber, maybe he had really caught something. He sat down at the desk, opened the recess and stuck his hand in it blindly to retrieve... It was empty. He blinked for a moment as his brain snapped out of the familiar routine, taking a good look at the inner side of the niche, and found it indeed empty, all his books gone. It was very strange, he didn't remember moving them. He never moved them. He looked around the room in concern, those weren't things he could afford to misplace, especially not the journal, it was literally the cornerstone of his entire work. He stopped in his tracks abruptly. He hadn't turned on the lights of the main chamber, but even the dim glow filtering through the dirty glass was enough for him to see what was on the other side, or rather what _wasn't_. He flipped the switch, light flooded the main room and Stanley's heart nearly stopped.  
  
The portal was gone. The spacious area behind the glass was completely empty, a clean, quiet, neat void. Stan stood up wobbly and made its way into the adiacent room with stumbling steps, unable to believe his eyes. He went to the opposite side of the room, which had been - should be, couldn't not be - occupied by the giant machine. Pipes, wires, metal supports hung loosely from their sockets in the wall, simply disconnected or outright broken. The silhouette of the huge missing machine was even visible on the wall, a clearer triangular shade against the darker contour, blackened by years of dust and dirt. Stan stood there for a good minute, simply stunned into silence and stillness. It didn't make any sense. Tons of metal and circuitry couldn't just vanish into thin air. They couldn't even be brought out without anyone noticing, neither from the elevator, nor from the emergency stairs that led into the lawn. Not to mention the fact that, supposedly, no one even knew of the existence of the basement or its contents. It just... wasn't possible.  
  
He stumbled back to the control room and started emptying every drawer in a desperate panic, then moved to the tiny utility room to the side, each closet and desk he examined confirming his fears. Someone else had been in the basement. Someone had stolen his stuff, which he couldn't find, someone had replaced it with other tools and clutter, which he couldn't recognise, someone, somehow, had taken the journal and moved the portal somewhere else, or maybe had destroyed it. Stan cussed lowly and run a hand through his hair, grasping the edge of a table to support his weight when his knees buckled dangerously. He couldn't understand. No one inside or outside Gravity Falls had the knowledge or the reasons to even understand what the portal was, not to mention to want it for themselves. He had seen enough inexplicable weirdness in the last thirty years to sort of believe that some way to perform that massive disappearance trick might exist, but even in that case... what was he supposed to do? Asking for external help was out of discussion. Tracking down the culprit seemed impossible in such unbelievable circumstances. Building a new portal- ah sure, if it had taken half of his life to almost but not really fix some minor damage to it, how could he even think of piecing together a new one without any sort of blueprint? He felt his own breaths coming out in quick, choked puffs as rage and horror wormed their way into his mind. It wasn't possible, it wasn't right. Thirty years and counting he had been working on the damn thing, wrecking his head over abstruse theories and sketchy plans, only to have everything swiped from under his nose out of the blue. What was he supposed to do? What could he do? He had to find out what happened, he had to find the portal, that was his one and only chance to-  
  
He heard a noise, his head snapping in that direction so quickly that his neck cracked painfully. The elevator was moving up. Stan immediately grabbed the biggest wrench he could find and switched off all the lights. Well, one stroke of luck, finally. That had to be the thief, surely, who else could know about the basement? He hid in the utility room leaving the door slightly ajar so that he could peek into the control room, hopefully without being too conspicuous. Seconds later the doors of the elevator opened and he held his breath, furious and anxious to see what the intruder would do. Then the lights turned on, and Stan's brain ground to a halt for the second time that night.  
  
"Stan? Are you here?"  
  
Nothing made sense that night, nothing. The man who casually strolled out of the elevator wasn't an exception. The man who Stanley knew, for no apparent or justifiable reason, but with an absolute, visceral certainty, to be his brother. His brother, lost to him for decades, stray in unknown worlds, curiously peering at the portal chamber, calm and normal and well and alive. Stan moved without even noticing, opening the door while the wrench slipped out of his grasp and hit the floor with a loud clang. That caught his twin's attention, who finally saw him and smiled.  
  
"Ah, there you are! I thought I heard some noises. What were you doing down here in the dark?"  
  
The smile faded rather quickly, replaced by a mildly worried expression. No wonder, Stan knew he was probably gaping at him like a brain-dead idiot, but he couldn't help it. He could barely scramble up enough coherency to whisper a single word.  
  
"...Stanford?"  
  
"...Yes? Is everything all right?"  
  
His brother's worry was rapidly turning into proper concern, but before he could do or say anything, Stan had already sprung to him and caught him into a crushing hug. Literally crushing, since he heard some undefined noise between surprised and pained coming from Ford, but he didn't loosen his grasp one bit, feeling beyond relieved to find solid flesh and bones in his arms.  
  
"Stanley! What is it?"  
  
He felt Ford's hands grab his shoulders in return, both steadying him and trying to pull him back, but Stan didn't budge. Too many strange things had happened in the last hour, too many horrifying and wonderful surprises for his wretched heart, and he really didn't feel like trying his luck, he really didn't want to let go of his brother, just on the off chance he might suddenly vanish like his blasted portal or like the delusional hallucination he probably was. His hands bunched up the rough fabric of his coat, the tightness in his chest reflexively causing him to squeeze himself into the other's body even more.  
  
"How... are you here?"  
  
"What do you...?" Ford trailed off for a few seconds, then he suddenly squeezed Stan's shoulders and tried to pry him off more firmly. "Stan, are you _breathing_?"  
  
Smart observation. It occurred to Stan that he wasn't. He finally relented and let Ford put enough space between them to look at each other. The close sight of Stanford's face made his stomach positively twist with more emotions than he could name. It was incredibly, painfully familiar, not only because of their uncanny similarity, but on a much deeper level, as if he had already seen and scrutinized it a hundred times in a hundred different dreams, and boy had he dreamt about their long-overdue reunion. His features were also new and unexpected in a lot of ways, from the greying shade of his hair, to the tiny wrinkles at the corners or his eyes, to the unguarded softness of his expression.  
  
"Calm down, take a-"  
  
Stan did, he did take a deep breath. It made him feel only marginally better. Then he lunged forward and crushed his lips against his twin's, and that had a much more invigorating effect. Nothing made _any fucking sense_ that night, he had established that, but this one thing did. The rough feeling of his brother's warm lips against his own, the breathy gasp of surprise against his skin, the barest prick of pain as his glasses tinkled against Ford's and dug slightly in his face, those were the only, the most real and logic and sensible and _right_ things that had happened to him since he had woken up. He clung to those sensations obstinately, chasing after Ford's lips when they shifted to the side to whisper another question to which Stan didn't, couldn't pay any attention. He immediately resumed the kiss, which he realized he needed way more than air, tilting his head to a more comfortable angle as he tried licking at Ford's lips, his hands sliding up to cup his brother's nape, run through his hair, cradle his skull, to keep him right where he needed him to be. And then, just like that, the illusion revealed itself just for what it was, a beautiful dream. Because where else, if not in Stan's wildest dreams, would Ford ever let out such a sweet, low moan, why else would he wrap his arms around his troublesome brother to hold him so tightly and keenly, how in the world would he ever feel like returning the kiss in kind, rising up to meet Stan's tongue with his own with such warmth and passion? Stan felt simply torn between the sheer, blissful joy of the moment and the damning realization of its impossibility, and that only fueled his need to get as much as he could from it. He pushed himself flush against Ford, forcing him to step back until he hit the edge of a desk without even noticing, too engrossed in the feeling and the warmth of his body. He unhesitatingly invaded his twin's mouth, licking his tongue, his teeth, wherever he could reach, savouring his taste and his hitched breaths, encouraged by the firm caresses and rubs he felt on his own back. Soon, way too soon, he run out of breath. He broke the kiss and took in a few gulps of air, still so close to Ford that Stan could swear he was breathing _him_ in, then he moved in again for another round, but he was stopped by a hand on his chest.  
  
"Wait, one moment." Ford's voice was rough and soft at the same time, just like the pressure on his chest was firm and soothing at once. "One moment."  
  
Stanley bit his lip, but he waited as he was asked. Once again his brother gently pushed him back, his flushed cheeks and lips contrasting oddly with his focussed expression as he gazed into Stan's eyes inquisitively.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
It would be quicker to explain what wasn't tremendously out of place, Stan thought. He took a few seconds to find his voice, as well as the courage to point out the obvious with a shaky smile and a small chuckle.  
  
"You're back? How?"  
  
Ford frowned, but his features quickly softened to what looked almost like sympathy.  
  
"Do you know what day it is?"  
  
Stan was fairly sure that random question couldn't have anything to do with the problem at hand, but in that moment he would have indulged his brother even if he had asked him to compose a full essay on Kerr black holes. When he actually put his mind on it, Stan noticed that the random question was more tricky than he thought. Not that he didn't normally forget the date at least twice a day, but in that particular situation he couldn't pinpoint even the rough moment of the week - was it the dreaded Monday? Was it the weekend? How long had it been since he had last worked, even?  
  
"Well, it's July." He hesitated, before concluding lamely. Ford responded with a crooked smile, some sort of remote sadness replacing the concern on his features. He rested his hands on Stan's arms, rubbing them slowly and almost tenderly.  
  
"It's... not July, I fear. It's the 23rd of October. I know this may sound absurd, but... a lot of things have happened in the last months, and you've been having some small memory issues. Nothing too serious though. You always remember everything in the end, it's just a matter of a few hours."  
  
Stan blinked. Well, that sounded like utter bullshit. Which he really shouldn't be surprised about, to think of it, of course his subconscious would come up with some ridiculous scenario to justify the whole situation. Nice effort, but still bullshit.  
  
"...Uh-huh."  
  
Ford didn't look tremendously reassured by that answer. He pulled back a bit further, much to Stan's disappointment, but he didn't let go of his brother.  
  
"It's... happened a couple of times already. Last time was a little over a month ago, but... as I told you, I'm sure you'll remember everything soon. You seem more well-grounded than the last times too, you... don't always recognise me at first glance."  
  
Stan frowned at that statement, which sounded beyond absurd and a tad insulting too. Not only because it would have been really fucking weird to forget what his own face looked like, but because, well... forgetting Ford? Really? He opened his mouth to reply, but Ford immediately back-pedalled as he saw his twin's expression.  
  
"Anyway, it's nothing to be worried about! I can fill you in about whatever you're missing, that'll jog your memory. It's a bit of a long story, so... let's go back upstairs and talk about this over a can of soda, all right?"  
  
Now, that idea didn't appeal to Stan in the slightest. For some reason, he felt like leaving the basement would burst the bubble, shatter that strange but very endearing dream. He felt like he could really use the mental relief of a brief chat with his brother, even it was just a pale and untrue imitation of the original.  
  
"Nah, don't want to wake the kids. We can stay here. You can tell me where the hell your huge piece of junk went, I nearly got a heart attack..."  
  
"The kids aren't here any more. It's October, remember? They're back in Piedmont. But you'll hear them tomorrow, Mabel has been calling every day since they left." Ford hurried to add the last bit of information when Stan failed to conceal his dismay at the notion of the niblings' departure. Then he smiled again, a tinge of confusion appearing on his features. "...How much do you remember, exactly? You said you think it's July, but you seem to know about... more recent developments too..."  
  
Ford floundering in embarassment was an amusing sight even after three decades of distance. It made Stan curious, even though he could sense that he was venturing into dangerous territory.  
  
"What developments?"  
  
"Well, you know..." He didn't, so he waited for Ford to elaborate further. Which he did, after a relatively lenghty pause, with an unfitting stern expression. "Well. You kissed me."  
  
"Ah, ehr..." He really should have seen that coming. Really. "What about that?"  
  
"What do you mean? You-" Pure, unedulcorated shock appeared on his brother's features, before he could school them into a more appropriate frown. "You do remember, don't you?"  
  
"Remember about _what_ , Ford?"  
  
"Bill Cipher. The apocalypse. Our... talks."   
  
Stan blinked again. An apocalypse, no less. That sounded way more convoluted and freaky than his average dreams and fantasies usually were. In fact, the whole conversation was dragging on much longer than it should have. It was getting a little bit unsettling. Ford was also quickly falling back into a similarly shaken state of mind.  
  
"You don't remember any of that? But... why the hell did you kiss me?"  
  
"It's... Dammit Sixer, it's the first time I see you in thirty years. I thought you- it's just a natural reaction, okay? What would you have done?"  
  
Stan's line of reasoning was heavily flawed and he knew it, it may have worked for most other people in the world, but not for the two of them, not for a pair of _twins_. However, Ford looked oddly striken by that far-fetched excuse, so much that he was actually stunned into silence for a few seconds. Stan immediately seized the occasion to divert the attention from himself.  
  
"What kind of question is that, anyway? I didn't hear you scream in horror either."  
  
"It's... part of the long story. A recent development. As I said."  
  
"Huh. Must be one hell of a story then."  
  
"...You have no idea."  
  
They exchanged equally perplexed glances. Then Ford sighed, shook his head and chuckled, before squeezing Stan's shoulders and smiling once again.  
  
"All right. One thing at a time. Let's go upstairs, okay?"  
  
Stan hesitated. He was genuinely starting to question his own sanity, even more than the reality or unreality of the whole situation, a fact that was obviously undermining the light-hearted nonchalance he had upheld throughout the whole thing. If - _if_ \- this was more than a simple dream, there were many more disturbing and potentially traumatic missing pieces of information that he could even imagine, not to mention-  
  
"Stan. Believe me when I say that I know how terrifying not being able to trust your own memory and mind can be. But about this, you have nothing to fear. Really." Ford looked unsure for a tiny, minuscule, almost imperceptible fraction of second, then he relaxed and his smile widened even more as he lay a single, soft kiss on his brother's cheek. "Trust me on this one, okay?"  
  
"...Okay." It came out easily. And just with that single agreement, Stan felt his own fears already subsiding a bit. It couldn't be any other way, after all. It couldn't be any other way, with his brother right there at his side, healthy and - dare he say happy? Dare he say caring? Close enough to those things, Stan judged. He nodded, gladly taking the arm Ford was offering him as they walked together back to the elevator. The firm grip, the collected smile, the lingering sensation of Ford's breath and lips on his own skin were, all in all, enough to make him confident that he could sit through apocaliptic tales and awkward talks without too many regrets. "Okay."

 


	4. Quid Pro Quo

Ford had to muster every ounce of self-restraint not to kick the man into his goddamn portal, and only because he didn't trust him not to drop a granade on the boat in retaliation on his way out. He should have blasted his face off the moment he had popped in front of them out of nowhere, honestly. That would have spared so much trouble to everyone.  
  
He re-entered the cabin alone, finding Stan sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of strong whiskey. He looked normal, but Ford was under no illusion about his state.  
  
"Nice guy."  
  
"Yes, I know."  
  
"I know it could sound weird coming from me, but you really have a pretty poor judgement when it comes to making friends, Ford."  
  
"He isn't my friend. Never has been. In fact, the one and only time I met him, I nearly got beheaded, he almost got imprisoned for life, and a city lost three entire blocks to what was officially deemed as a spontaneous fire."  
  
"Nice."  
  
Stan emptied the glass with a long gulp and immediately poured himself another. Ford thought that he should either stop him or join him, but he didn't feel like doing either. He just waited for the inevitable questions to drop. He didn't have to wait long.  
  
"Did you know?"  
  
"...No." Stan looked up from the table for the first time, shooting an unmistakably doubtful glance at Ford. He hadn't seen one of those in a while. Ford wished he could feel affronted by such unwarranted distrust, but his attention was momentarily stolen by a tiny, negligible detail he had completely forgotten until that very moment.  
  
_This isn't your dimension, Bill, you have no right to be here!  
_  
_Neither do you. Don't be such a hypocrite, Brainiac.  
_  
"...Theoretically, I did know that the mathematical probability was incredibly low. But so were the chances of a portal opening in the Nightmare Realm exactly in that moment, exactly how it did, so I guess I just... didn't question the unlikeness of the whole thing. I never thought to check. I wouldn't have known how to, anyway. I don't have that kind of knowledge or technology."  
  
"...Ah."  
  
Stan's gaze dropped to the glass again. Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Stan traced the rim of the glass slowly, his tone unfittingly light and casual.  
  
"I don't know, seems to me like the kind of thing you'd want to check right away. And it took that guy what- five seconds? No more than four buttons pushed, that's for sure. Didn't look that difficult."  
  
"Sanchez has access to a wealth of notions and equipment that is unrivaled in most of the universes I've seen, and most of it is tragically misused. He doesn't share it as a rule, and asking him any sort of favor is almost as much of a bad idea as making a deal with Bill. I didn't know, Stanley. I really didn't."  
  
This time he got a grunt in reply, swiftly drowned by another gulp of whiskey. Again, he waited.  
  
"So... what now?"  
  
"I..." Ford took a moment to choose his words carefully. "...It's a troubling situation, there's no point in denying that... but I think we can make sense of it. We haven't noticed for months, we may have kept ignoring the issue for much longer if Sanchez hadn't showed up. I think it's less of a world-changing revelation than it might seem."  
  
Stan gaped at him in disbelief. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, as I said, we didn't even notice. Many universes differ from each other only by ridiculously tiny details, almost unobservable quantic states that have little to no visible macroscopic repercussions. Our memories of our childhoods seem exactly the same, much like anything else I have observed since I got here. Not to mention that this has no impact whatsoever on the experiences we've made in the last months, and on how close we've..."  
  
Ford stopped when Stan started waving his hand in dismissal, his expression darkening visibly.  
  
"This is... all very nice and very true, Stanford, but I was talking about something more practical. I meant what are we going to _do_. About the other Stanford, you know... my brother. The one who must still be lost on some God-forsaken random planet of a God-forsaken random dimension. How do we find him?"  
  
This time, it was Ford who broke eye contact first. Nevertheless, Stan managed to guess his thoughts flawlessly.  
  
"You asked him where he is, didn't you? Did he know?"  
  
Of course he asked. Of course Ford knew that Stan's first priority in light of the new discovery would be locating his own brother, the one that, apparently, Ford wasn't. Of course Ford asked, and of course Rick knew, with the same inexplicable confidence that allowed him to know exactly how to materialize a perfectly functional and safe interdimensional portal from a gun-sized device, or how to brew a strawberry flavored beverage that could make a human liver spontaneously produce alcohol for 72 hours, or how to destroy months of cherished domestic tranquillity with less than 20 words. Ford didn't reply, and that was as clear of an answer as Stan could get. His brother grew very pale, very quickly, and dropped his gaze as well.  
  
"...How?"  
  
"Stan, I don't think-"  
  
"Ford. How."  
  
"...It seems he... got lost during another planet's equivalent of a snowstorm. He couldn't find a shelter quickly enough."  
  
"He got lost? You mean that they just lost track of him, or...?"  
  
"A nomadic tribe found him. His body. Thirteen years ago."  
  
Ford didn't add that his alternate self's body had been subsequently handed to Bill's agents in exchange for a meager monetary reward. It seemed a very unnecessary and gratuitously crude piece of information, pretty much like the entirety of their conversation with Sanchez had been. He should have definitely shot him. Possibly when he had showed up specifically to enquire on the whereabouts of a small packet of crystals he had misplaced in Ford's pocket no less than ten years before - what the hell was _wrong_ with that man, seriously? Surely when he had started to complain about Ford's allegedly disastrous haggling skills in trading it with new clothes, three fully charged plasma guns and three months' worth of human food - a life-saving bargain in Ford's situation. And then, just out of spite for not finding his goddamn crystals, he had started to ask, and imply, and chatter, for no other purpose than to pour his own annoyance onto others.  
  
And now, not for the first time, Stan was paying the consequences of Ford's foolishness. He squeezed his brother's wrist gently, taking in his sombre expression and stricken silence.  
  
"...I'm sorry."  
  
Stan didn't reply, or drink, or react in any visible way for a few, long minutes. He gazed out of the porthole, his hand covering his mouth, his eyes lost in the misty horizon.  
  
"Fuck." He finally exhaled, briefly rubbing his hand over his whole face, before resuming his idle staring. "Fuck, I really thought..."  
  
Ford suddenly felt as if they were back at eight months before. As if all the progress they had made, the heartfelt apologies and reciprocal forgiveness, the lightness and ease they had consciously allowed in their relationship had been swept away in a matter of minutes. It had been quite a while since he had last seen that particular brand of guilt haunting Stan's features, one whose existence he hadn't even guessed until it had slapped his metaphorical face.  
  
"Stanley." Ford tightened his hold on his brother's arm, rubbing his thumb on his skin soothingly. "You did everything you could. More than anyone else could have ever done. To try to fix something that was way beyond your control. You didn't build the portal, you didn't want to be involved, you didn't start the fight. Your brother did. We did. You know this isn't your fault."  
  
"That doesn't mean shit. Even if it wasn't, I was the only one who could have done something. I should have done something. But I didn't. For thirty fucking years. I couldn't." Stan freed his arm from Ford's grasp to wipe away the tiny, shiny smidgens gathering at the corners of his eyes. "I couldn't save his life. How isn't that 'world-changing', Ford?"  
  
Ford clenched his fist. That was going to be harder than the first time, he realised. First and foremost because forgiving oneself after a troubled but ultimately successful misadventure was one thing, while doing the same after everything had gone horribly wrong was another. Secondly, because this time he couldn't provide a somewhat justified encouragement, because it turned out he wasn't even directly involved in the matter any more. A different approach, then.  
  
"You saved mine."  
  
Stan just shook his head with a heavy sigh, but Ford continued testily.  
  
"No, I'm not just saying it, I mean it literally. I've never told you what I was doing right before jumping in your portal, have I?"  
  
That got him a marginally interested glance in response. Good enough, he thought.  
  
"I was facing Bill. I was literally about to try to kill him in his own lair. It was... an hazardous plan, one I probably wouldn't have survived. The Nightmare Realm wasn't a proper dimension, it was more of a stray space-time pocket between worlds. Very unstable, and held together solely by Bill's powers. If I had managed to defeat him, I imagine the Realm would have collapsed on itself very quickly, possibly immediately. I doubt it would have lasted long enough for me to find a way out."  
  
"That sounds like a very poorly thought plan, not gonna lie."  
  
"I suppose it was. I didn't really think about the aftermath of my raid. Taking Bill down was such an ambitious target that any possible negative consequence seemed of little importance. The point is that you effectively provided me with an escape route, then and there, and subsequently destroyed the demon himself. You saved more lives than we could count, including a great deal of Fords, I bet."  
  
Even though not the one that mattered to him the most, unfortunately. Ford thought it, and Stan thought it, and no one could really offer anything to soften that blow. Stan nodded thoughtfully, and they fell silent again, slowly digesting the several implications of that complicated evening. Unexpectedly, it was Stan who spoke up next.  
  
"So... what about the other Stan?"  
  
"Mh?"  
  
"Your brother, in your own dimension. Is he still alive?"  
  
"I... don't know..."  
  
Stan frowned, and Ford knew instantly that he had just made another glaring mistake.  
  
"You didn't ask? You asked about my brother and not _yours_?"  
  
"I... honestly, I was more worried about your reaction, you looked very unsettled. And I wanted that bastard out of my sight as soon as possible, so-"  
  
"No, ok, listen here." Stan rubbed his face again, a deeper, more concerning frown twisting his features. "I know you're more used at this whole multiverse bullshit than I am, but this is... You really- do you even _care_ about where you are, or who you are with? Because it really looks like you're giving many fewer fucks about this mess than any sane person would."  
  
"Of course I care. As I said, this is disconcerting news, but it doesn't- it shouldn't change where we stand. You shouldn't think any less of your objectively astounding merits, I shouldn't feel any less at home in this dimension just because I wasn't born here. Hell Stanley, we shouldn't doubt the value of what we have built just because a few numbers don't match, when everything else, down to our memories, does!"  
  
"Easy to say for you. It's not your head that got turned inside out..." Stan frowned even more, then shook his head and bent slightly forwards. "That's not the point though. Are you really not seeing this? Is this where you really want to be? Are you absolutely sure you aren't forgetting anything?"  
  
"Are you seriously asking me why I'm not running off this instant?" Ford tapped his fingers on the table nervously, starting to grow impatient. "If it is some sort of declaration you're looking for, I'll own it, and gladly. I love you, and you know I do. I cherish our travels and your company just as much as you do, and I wouldn't relinquish them for anything. Though I am honestly surprised that you're insinuating the opposite."  
  
Stan stood up and started pacing around the room nervously, not in the least reassured by Ford's forwardness. Why, Ford couldn't fathom. Suddenly, he smashed his fist against the table, causing Ford to almost jump in surprise. His brother looked positively fuming.  
  
"You love me, uh? You say it just like that, but... alright, here's a question for you, Poindexter. If you really love me, if you're really all sparkly-eyed and filled with unbridled affection and oh so ready to do anything for my precious peace of mind, how come you aren't sparing a single thought to this other Stanley, who is just like me, just as much worthy and brave, just as much undeserving of guilt or contempt, who has been breaking his back and mind for _thirty goddamn years_ to bring you back from sci-fi hell? Doesn't he deserve to have you back, instead of having you gallivanting around alternate dimensions and fucking alternate brothers?"  
  
Ford couldn't do anything but gape in shock at the vehemence of his brother's words. In the last decades, he had fought monsters, aliens, demons without sparing a single thought to his own safety and without ever cowering before any opponent, yet, had he been standing up, he would have taken a step back when Stan marched right in front of him, jamming his index in Ford's chest accusingly.  
  
"And mind that, Ford. To have you back. You. Not any other Pines, or clone, or doppelganger, or random lookalike. _You_. His own brother. Call me or any other Stanley stupid, but I'm pretty sure none of us ever thought that your sixth fingers were what made you unique."  
  
Ford could swear Stan was trying to bore a hole in his face just with the sheer power of his glare. He found he couldn't quite reply, nor really weasel out of that scorching aura of disdain for a whole, endless, oppressive minute.  
  
"I-"  
  
"I'm going to bed. This bullshit is giving me a migraine."  
  
Stan stormed out of the room without another word. His rage kept permeating the room like a suffocating cloud. Ford walked out on the deck, taking a few deep breaths of the chilled Arctic air. The night was beautifully serene and clear. Stars shone, bright and vivid, tracing known shapes and silhouettes on the deep darkness above. The constellations had seemed incredibly familiar and welcoming when Ford had first seen them after coming back from the portal. How little it had taken for them to look like a cheap trick instead, a sly illusion of reliability in a house full of mirrors.  
  
For the second time in eight months, and in more than thirty years, Ford felt lonely.


	5. Rerun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Steampunch's](https://steampunch.tumblr.com/post/156860024865/hello-its-me-a-stram-i-have-been-1-without-a) breathtaking [art](https://68.media.tumblr.com/d2515f276eef187eb58d0a90a3a3603f/tumblr_okx88kaJnI1smqclqo4_1280.png)

The images on the screen are surprisingly clean and vivid, the sound of laughters and broken branches unexpectedly crisp and sharp. Each reel was packed and sealed very carefully, but Ford wouldn't have guessed they would have aged so well. They've withstood the test of time much better than the both of them, which, he supposes, is the exact purpose of such keepsakes. He doesn't watch them, though. He can barely remember the content of the tapes, but they hold very little interest compared to the fact that Stan's jokes and questions have gradually lessened, that his eyes are now glued to the screen as if the very essence of the universe was pictured on it. His own largely is, probably.  
  
Bless the visual arts. Three nights of detailed tales and heartfelt apologies didn't so much as spark the barest hint of recollection on Stan's part, yet a handful of pictures from a child's scrapbook and few minutes of haphazard recording are proving miraculous. Ford observes his brother's features with trepidation, the deep shadows cast by the projector giving him an even more serious and profound appearance. This is it, he can tell. He hopes.  
  
The reel stops with an abrupt snap. Stan blinks, glancing around himself as if suddenly awoken from a dream. He rubs his hand on his eyes for a moment.  
  
"...Damn. Sorry, can we rewatch the last part? I spaced out a bit."  
  
"Of course."  
  
Ford stands up and starts fiddling with the projector, rewinding roughly half of the tape. He bides his time with the equipment, and with his questions. He sits back on his chair as two overly energetic kids are about to earn themselves a semi-permanent banishment from the family shop.  
  
"Where did you say you found these?"  
  
"In my private study. I don't quite know how they ended up down there, but I do remember having them sent here from home. I guess I did move around some stuff at some point..."  
  
Stan keeps staring at the screen thoughtfully, slouching slightly to the side of the armchair, his hand holding his right cheek. A frown crosses his features, but only for a moment.  
  
"...Right. The second underground floor. I could never get past that fancy lock. But the backdoor to the emergency stairs was a child's play. I can't believe the gnomes never found a way in."  
  
There's his answer. Relief washes over him slowly, almost a physical weight settling in his stomach and crawling up his spine. It pervades him so deeply that it feels almost unpleasant. Stan shoots him a small, satisfied smirk, and Ford can only smile in return.  
  
"I set up a couple of magic deterrents back in the day. You got in?"  
  
"'Course I did. I turned the whole house upside down while I was searching for anything that could help me fix that mess in the basement. I couldn't make sense of anything I found down there though, not even the giant computer. Goddamn codes and passwords everywhere."  
  
The precarious Fort Stan on the screen collapses loudly, catching their attention again. An abrupt cut spares them their father's decidedly unimpressed reaction to their filming ambitions, and the setting switches back to the great outdoors. Stan's expression shifts again, to one Ford doesn't quite know how to interpret.  
  
"I found these, I think. I checked one, but I didn't... Well, they weren't going to help me with the nerd work. I put them back where I found them."  
  
Ford considers the screen for a moment, realizing he himself has no memory of that specific sequence. He remembers asking for the reels, when his mother had decided to toss away some of their old stuff. He remembers the thought of the tapes being destroyed feeling vaguely unpleasant, he remembers packing them adequately for when he would have time to watch them. For later.  
  
"...I never watched them either."  
  
Silence stretches between them, way more meaningful than all the inane chatter and one-sided conversations of the last few days. Stan sighs deeply, and Ford squeezes his arm gently.  
  
"...Are you all right?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah."  
  
"If you're tired, we can call it a day and-"  
  
"No, really, I'm fine. It's just- it's just..."  
  
Stan's gaze drops to Ford's hand and he stares at it intently, as if trying to gauge the right word from Ford's knuckles.  
  
"...Nuts."  
  
"That's putting it mildly."  
  
Stan smiles, and falls silent again. He is strangely pensive, strangely quiet and cautious, much unlike his normal boisterous character and even his easy-going and carefree amnesiac self. Of this third, probably temporary iteration of his brother Ford knows nothing, and he has absolutely no idea how to handle it.  
  
"Stan... I know I've been nothing but spitefully secretive about everything since I came back. About myself, about my plans, about Bill- and God knows how much damage that caused. But if there's anything you need to know... Anything you want to ask..."  
  
"No, not ask... but I do have something to say." He frowns, picking an invisible speck of dust off Ford's sleeve. "And do. Before it slips my mind."  
  
That is a loaded introduction if Ford's ever heard one, so he waits. Stan slightly leans forward, then he pauses, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features, then he leans forward again. He doesn't stop. His lips land on his brother's, his breath tickles his cheeks, and Ford's mind goes completely blank.  
  
The first emotion emerging from the void is utter dread. Because Ford cannot possibly fathom what may have spurred such an action, so it must be some sort of mistake, some tragic inconsistency or misplaced attachment in his brother's memory, a positively catastrophic one. He tries to inch back from him, but Stan's arm slips from his grasp to hold him by the side of his head. Ford's mouth opens imperceptibly in surprise, and suddenly he's acutely aware of his brother's thumb tracing his cheekbone, slowly tickling his sideburn, of his palm brushing the shell of his ear, of his fingers tangling in his hair and curving on his nape. Stan's lips caress Ford with a gentleness that he's never experienced before, with his brother or with anyone else, and with a deliberate tranquillity that subdues any objection.  
  
It's over before Ford can recover properly. Stan leans back just a bit to look at him, still gripping Ford's head firmly, only slightly flushed and holding his gaze steadily.  
  
"I..." Ford gulps. Each word feels like a round of Russian roulette, ready to blow both their brains out. "I think... this is a serious misunderstanding."  
  
"You think, uh? Figures, I should have started with the other thing. But that 's been... a long time coming."  
  
"What... Stanley, what on earth-"  
  
"Shut up and listen, Poindexter. Carefully."  
  
The hand on Ford's nape becomes heavier. The grip on the back of his neck suddenly feels way more like a vise, and Stan brings their heads closer again. Their foreheads bump. Hard. Painfully.  
  
"You motherfucking bastard."  
  
Ford blinks. His doubts on Stan's coherency and sanity have skyrocketed in the last sixty seconds, but he has no opportunity to express them.  
  
"To make it quick. I'm not going to rub in your face the ungodly amount of utter _bullshit_ that you spew on mine thirty years ago, but don't think I don't remember. Don't think _for a second_ that I don't remember."  
  
He can feel Stan's nails digging slightly in his nape, their glasses tinkling uncomfortably against one another, his brother's steely tone digging in his chest like a knife.  
  
"I'm not going to question your right to complain about the state of the house as if it was a deconsacrated temple- _my_ house, as much as it is yours - or to burn _my_ merchandise, or to disparage three decades' worth of work to bring your sorry ass out of Sci-Fi Land. I'm not so stupid that I can't see your point in those matters. A cheap, selfish, haughty point, but a point nonetheless."  
  
"I-"  
  
"What I do question-" Stan's jaw sets at a sharper angle, a tight grimace twists his features "- is how much of a petty, self-absorbed prick one must be to greet his own brother after thirty whole years with a punch on the face. A punch. On the face. And insults. And a full-fledged _eviction notice_."  
  
"No, listen." Ford's head snaps up, nudging the other to earn himself enough leeway to look at him. "I told you, I'm- believe me, I'm truly sorry about that. I had just come back, the house was-"  
  
"I know what you said and for God's sake, shut up. This is nothing, this is childish, obnoxious, irrelevant crap- _nothing_ compared to dragging a couple of kids - _my_ niece and nephew, _your_ niece and nephew- into your personal holy crusade against a psychopathic, mind-controlling monster. They could have died, Ford. They could have gone mad. I may have done a lousy job at protecting them from all this myself, but at least I tried. At least I _tried_."  
  
"...I know. That... I know. You-"  
  
"Stanford. _Shut. Up._ "  
  
Stan finally loosens his grasp and raises his head to meet Ford's eyes. He doesn't look as furious as Ford was expecting. He doesn't look angry at all, in fact. He looks dejected, tired. Sad.  
  
"I know that you know, and that you're sorry. I know what you told me. The problem is, you told me yesterday, and the day before that. You told me when I didn't even know what the hell you were talking about, you gave me your apologies when I didn't even know I deserved any. And that - as sincere as you may have been - is cowardly as fuck. Wonderfully refreshing for your conscience, I bet, but completely meaningless for me, because I couldn't talk back."  
  
The logic is flawless. It's his turn not to talk back, so he doesn't. Stan's expression grows softer.  
  
"So. We're doing this all over again. We're talking again about all this, so that you can deliver your apologies properly. And... have some of mine as well. And we're talking to the kids too, of course. They deserve it more than the both of us."  
  
Ford nods and instictively glances at the clock. Stan follows his gaze and shakes his head.  
  
"Not now. God, not now, I barely even know how old I am. And you look ready to stab yourself with an ice pick."  
  
Stan is still holding him, but Ford finds that it doesn't feel as if he's about to snap his neck any more, so he can lean back to a reasonable degree. Ford sighs tiredly, scratching his own knee nervously.  
  
"Well, you are right. About... basically all of it. I... I know it doesn't mean much like this, but... I really am sorry. For everything."  
  
"I know. I heard you the first ten times you said it, but... Hell, don't give me that look, I refuse to console you. You had that coming." Stan pinches the bridge of his nose, his whole face scrunching up. "Don't go moping around like that, you'll worry the kids. I just... needed to get all that out of my system."  
  
Ford considers his brother's words for a moment, his thought dwelling on a short but very prominent part of the evening. "...All of that?"  
  
"Yeah. All of that."  
  
Now that expression, Ford recognises. He's seen that purposefully casual, undisclosing demeanour countless times from countless hardened gamblers on Lottocron Nine. And apparently three nights in a smelly cell and a forceful ejection from the dimension's finest establishment still haven't taught him that not all bluffs should be called out.  
  
"...Is there anything else I need to hear?"  
  
Stan snorts. "Yeah. You're a stuck-up, insufferable, pushy smartass."  
  
"...I see."  
  
"A callous, unfeeling, smug cock."  
  
"I'm... glad this nasty incident hasn't impaired your vocabulary."  
  
"A remorseless, ungrateful, stubborn son of a bitch."  
  
"We still have the same mother, you know."  
  
"Are you _seriously_ -"  
  
The reel snaps loudly as it stops. They both stare at the bright, white screen for a moment.  
  
"Dammit. I can't get to see the end of this thing."  
  
"Shall I rewind it again?"  
  
"Nah, maybe another time. Put on the next one." Stan lays back comfortably on his armchair and his hand finally withdraws from Ford's neck, slipping off his shoulder. Slowly, lightly. Almost like a caress. "And grab more popcorn while you're at it."


	6. Through the Looking Glass

Ford clasped his hands behind his back, trying his best to wait calmly and patiently despite the worrying noises around him.  
  
"Uh, Stanley?"  
  
"Not done yet."  
  
"Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but do you remember what happened the last time we... rearranged the furniture?"  
  
"Shush, it's a different thing. Perfectly safe. Don't peek."  
  
"And we hadn't even drunk anything..."  
  
"Pffft, you call five glasses of whiskey drinking? Ma would be ashamed."  
  
"May I just ask-"  
  
A louder thud came from right in front of him, and Ford gave up on arguing. He should have chosen to hold onto his self-respect sooner, instead of accepting to stand around for a good five minutes in the middle of their bedroom, eyes duly shut, waiting for whatever heavy and bulky 'surprise' Stan was apparently dragging all over the boat. There was no stopping Stan's enthusiasm after it exceeded its critical threshold.  
  
"Perfect. A few steps back, if you please, and then sit."  
  
Stan moved behind him and took both Ford's hands, guiding him backwards as instructed. Ford frowned slightly at that needlessly convoluted procedure, but he complied silently. He sat on something soft, confirming that bed and mattress, at least, were still where they were supposed to be.  
  
"All right, you can look."  
  
Finally, Ford opened his eyes, and he found himself staring back at his own confused expression. Thankfully, the room was as he'd last seen it, the only difference being a large, full-length mirror standing exactly in its center, facing the bed. Stan had managed to arrange the two of them so that Ford was sitting between his legs, and he shot a wide grin at his brother from behind his back. They made an amusing sight, two elderly men sitting around like playful children, bulky bodies and rough skins shaped by tireless navigation and misadventures, yet elegantly dressed and clean shaven for the first time in months.  
  
"...A mirror?"  
  
"Brilliant observation, Poindexter. Any thoughts?"  
  
Ford bent slightly forwards to take a better look at the new addition. It was very dark and lucid, with a thin yet steady build made of sturdy wood, ebony perhaps. The frame was richly carved with arboreal motifs, shaped like thick roots and solid bark in the lower half and ascending with delicate and lithe branches in its upper side.  
  
"It's very elegant. I'm no connoisseur, but it looks expertly made. It's... not the kind of vanity I'd ever expect you to choose for yourself, I'll admit. Especially knowing how you usually favor cheaper alternatives."  
  
Stan barked out a laugh. "Yeah, it really isn't my style - which you aren't allowed to criticize, by the way. I've lived in your house for thirty years, Ford. I've found _things_."  
  
Ford cleared his throat in embarassment. "Right, well... I am still slightly puzzled as to why you decided to buy us a new mirror."  
  
Stan swatted an invisible speck of dust from Ford's shoulder. "To buy _you_ a new mirror, you mean. It's a gift. I told you the suit was just the beginning."  
  
Right, Stan had been in high spirits since the day before, when they had docked, for the first time in months, in some place that wasn't the usual far-off fishing village, but a full-fledged sea-side tourist resort, complete with luxury shops and a casino. That very night, Ford had reluctantly watched Stan dress up and head to the seedy establishment, already resigned to find a solid loss in their budget by the following morning. Instead, his brother had come back with substantial and allegedly legitimate winnings.  
  
His good mood had only intensified from there. He had positively conned - Ford couldn't even quite remember how, or with which words - his brother into promising they would go back together to the same establishment the following night, and he had subsequently dragged him out for the afternoon to get him 'cleaned up nice'. Apparently, within that short time span, he had also managed to buy, bring on board and hide God knows where a new piece of furniture without Ford even noticing.  
  
"I'm very flattered, but..." Ford turned to look directly as his brother. "Why a mirror?"  
  
"Oh, well." Stan smiled, wrapping his arms around Ford's torso and resting his chin on his shoulder, gently nudging his brother to face the mirror again. "I finally got an idea about a present we could both enjoy for once, so I just went for it."  
  
"Mh... Interesting. I never took you for the vain type."  
  
"Oh, I'm not. But it's nice to know you have some shareable interests beyond equations and unlikely fauna." Stan smiled amiably, smoothed carefully his brother's waistcoat and slid his finger within the tie's knot, starting to loosen it. "So. Why have you never told me you like peeping?"  
  
Ford blinked, processing his brother's claim with unusual slowness. "...Excuse me?"  
  
"Man, aren't you lovely when you get selectively deaf. I said..." He smirked, and Ford felt him - and saw him - pressing his lips directly against his ear, practically into his ear, sending small shivers down Ford's spine with each whispered sillable, each warm breath, each wet contact with the curved cartilage. "'Why have you never told me you like peeping?'  
"  
"I... really have no idea what you're talking about."  
  
"How strange." Ford's tie landed at the bottom of the bed and Stan began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, from top to bottom. "I thought you'd remember the thirty or forty times you stood in front of the bathroom door while I was jerking off."  
  
Ford's whole body tensed abruptly, but Stan didn't seem to mind or notice. "I mean, it kind of made sense at first, before we got all upfront and settled about this. There were some weird vibes on the boat at that point, I'll give you that. What I didn't get is why you kept doing it after we talked things through. And you kept doing it for months. Maybe you're still doing it, uh?" Ford's beet red face was as clear of an answer as Stan could possibly need. "Yeah, ok, you're still doing it. Well, at least you seem to be a bit more discreet about it. Can't honestly say I have noticed, lately."  
  
Ford was at a complete loss for words, not that he thought there was much to say to justify such behavior. Luckily, Stan wasn't expecting long-winded replies, and he seemed perfectly content with his task of slowly undressing his brother, who had just lost his waistcoat as well.  
  
"It is weird, you have to admit that. You could just, I don't know, knock and join the fun, or storm in, tie me to the fittings and take the matter in your own hands - literally, right? But no, you'd rather rub one off on your own without even tipping the showman, like the little self-centered prick you are. Some guys would take it as a personal offense, you know."  
  
Ford finally tore his eyes off the mirror and looked straight at his brother, radiating genuine outrage. "I do _not_ do that."  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"I don't-" Ford sighed, turning back to face their reflections again. It didn't really make talking any easier. "I don't peep through keyholes, for heaven's sake. I'm not that far gone. Nor do I act upon it. I just... listen, mostly. Not that there's much to hear, but... well..."  
  
Stan hummed, massaging Ford's torso through his shirt. His fingers alternatively straightened and creased the light fabric with leisurely strokes, letting it both bunch up and stretch on the soft expanse of his brother's belly.  
  
"You listen. And that's all. God, you're such a dork. That sounds... slightly hot at best, and very frustrating."  
  
"That's because you're making a huge deal out of nothing. I just... find the knowledge of what you're doing in there... a bit distracting. That's all, really. And I assume that if you aren't seeking me out, you'd rather have some privacy for once, so I keep to myself."  
  
"And your idea of respecting my privacy involves eavesdropping on me and patrolling the corridor while I'm trying to have a good time?"  
  
Ford let out a defeated sigh, accepting the jab fairly. He didn't have a shred of a valid argument to counter his brother, that much was obvious. In fact, he could count himself lucky that Stan was completely nonplussed and amused by the whole thing, at least judging by the steady progress he was making with Ford's undressing. He had just moved to the top buttons of his shirt, and he was taking his sweet time with each one of them, rolling the tiny round buttons in his fingers a few times before slipping them through their eyelets. Saying that the motions were suggestive would be an understatement.  
  
"All right. Let's pretend this unbelievably prudish behavior of yours doesn't underwhelm me. How about your questionable fascination for my seduction attempts? With strangers, I mean."  
  
There went the second can of worms. Ford closed his eyes for a moment, genuinely missing those blessed old times when his brother used to find him intimidating.  
  
"And here I thought you'd appreciate my liberality in letting you hit on whoever you liked for the evening."  
  
"Only to lock onto me and find any random excuse to drag me away the very second anyone starts flirting back? Mighty generous of you."  
  
"Is this about what happened earlier?"  
  
"Also. I didn't even manage to catch the name of that charming estate agent I was-"  
  
"And the loud, young heiress. And the blackjack dealer. _At once_. I am only human, Stanley."  
  
"Yeah, yeah. The point is that you know I wouldn't mind holding off from doing that, now that I'm taken. But you've specifically told me you have no problem with that. You've encouraged me to keep doing it, even. And I don't think you're lying. I don't think you're saying that out of sheer open-mindedness, either."  
  
Buttons finally undone, Ford's shirt fluttered open, revealing the bare skin beneath. Stan's hands dipped under the fabric, deftly seeking and tickling those tender spots that invariably made Ford's muscles twitch automatically. He was staring at Ford with a certain intensity that made something squirm in his brother's stomach.  
  
"And your point is?"  
  
"My point is: have you ever considered that, with the proper arrangements, you may get to see more than some cheesy pick-up lines and a couple of ass squeezes?"  
  
Ford slightly lowered his gaze on the mirror, temporarily relinquishing his brother's eyes to focus back on his hands. His callous fingertips were running along the lines of Ford's ribs, leaving a slightly itchy and pleasantly lingering sensation in their wake. His touch had a certain assertive presence, pressing hard enough to leave a lighter trail on Ford's flesh for a second, before it returned to its usual tone. Briefly, very briefly, Ford tried to imagine Stan's hands giving the same ministrations to someone else, some faceless, charmless passerby who would share with Ford nothing but the same questionable interest. The mere idea was enough to make Ford's gut constrict in the most unpleasant way.  
  
"Honestly" Ford swallowed thickly, resting his hand on his brother's thigh and squeezing it gently, "I can't say that the idea appeals to me."  
  
"Mmh. Figured as much, but I thought there would be no harm in asking." Stan smirked, leaning back slightly to peel the shirt off Ford's body and throw it in the growing heap on the opposite side of the bed. He hugged his brother again, laying a kiss on his neck. "We'll see."  
  
Stan's hands took to roam around Ford's chest with wide, languid movements. His fingers carded and tangled through his hair leisurely, pulling just enough to give him a slight sting, then relenting and taking off in a different direction. Warm kisses peppered Ford's neck and shoulder, quickly divesting him of the lingering discomfort of that bizarre conversation.  
  
Unexpectedly, Ford found himself oddly compelled to keep looking at the mirror throughout all of it. It was nothing they hadn't already done a hundred times already, but the new perspective offered by the reflection made it feel somewhat different. The soft, delicate feeling of his brother's hands and lips on him, coupled with the unhindered sight of the very same actions, had a positively mesmerizing effect. He focussed on one detail at a time, savoring each nuance of each gesture. The odd contrast between the round fullness of his brother's lips and their chapped surface. The fond intent of his expression as he savored the taste of Ford's skin, inch by inch. The tiny wrinkles and scars on his knuckles. The pliable elasticity of his own skin, molded by Stan's measured caresses. He let out a deeper breath when Stan pinched both his nipples, and he felt - saw - his own cheeks redden slightly at how quickly they hardened under his brother's touch.  
  
Stan chuckled, and their eyes met on the clear surface. Only then Ford felt the magnetic fascination of the object wane slightly, and he finally turned his head just enough to kiss his brother fully. He was sweet like whiskey, and salty like skin, and still the most delicious thing Ford had ever had the pleasure of tasting. Ford sucked at his lower lip, and inhaled his breath, and licked his tongue, and it wasn't nearly enough. He moved to face him fully, but a hand on his arm stopped him and nudged him forwards again, while another swiftly slid down his stomach, past his navel, beneath the hem of his trousers.  
  
There was something new to see on the mirror. Stan's hand created a big, squirming bulge in Ford's groin, almost comically so. It re-emerged for a moment to pull down the unnecessary garments, and Ford gulped embrassingly loudly as Stan purposefully let his brother's growing cock literally spring out from underneath. He didn't even have the decency to get on with it immediately, the bastard. He stroke the surrounding hair first, scratching and teasing the thick curls all over Ford's crotch, while his neglected erection gradually grew higher, one tiny twitch after another.  
  
Yet, Ford did not complain. He was too fascinated by the entrancing sight. The closest he got to voicing his disappointment was when Stan's hand dipped lower still to grab and squeeze his sack, which, due to an unfortunate combination of bunched up trousers and a bad angle, wasn't quite visible. And that felt surprisingly frustrating. But Stan seemed to guess the problem and quickly, mercifully moved on to wrap his hand fully around Ford's length. Ford let out an involuntary gasp as his thumb, only his thumb, moved, barely scraping along a particularly evident vein along the whole length.  
  
"God, you're gorgeous."  
  
Stan's husky tone caught Ford's attention again, and his eyes darted up to their faces. Ford had often been surprised by his brother's perceptiveness during their intimate moments, by how easily he seemed to gauge Ford's interest and mood at any given time. Seeing his own expression in that circumstance for the first time, Ford had to admit that it may have been less of a feat than he was imagining. His flustered look, tinged cheeks and slightly parted lips left little to the imagination. Stan was drinking in the sight with evident rapture and Ford suddenly felt nothing short of debauched, despite realizing that he wasn't objectively more exposed than during any of their previous encounters. He swiftly reached up and snatched Stan's glasses away, leaving his brother blinking in confusion for a moment before he let out a short laugh.  
  
"Dick."  
  
With the glasses out of the way, Stan's next onslaught of kisses, nibbles and bites became even more energetic. Ford let out a small moan at the feeling of his brother's tongue roaming freely all over his neck, of his breath tickling his skin delightfully. He tried to turn again to return the kisses, but Stan's free hand grabbed his chin and held it firmly towards the mirror, towards the captivating view he had peevishly denied him. At the same time, the hand on his cock started stroking him in earnest, with slow and tight pulls that left Ford positively gasping. His eyes were glued to the mirror, to the engrossing sight of Stan's fingers tracing his jaw back and forth, then dipping lower along his neck to press softly in the hollow of his throat, along the tense tendon on the side, on the quivering spot of his pulse. He observed the small telltales of his own increasing pleasure, the small twinges of his abs, the uneven heaving of his chest, the imperceptible thrusts of his hips.  
  
He did not blink for so long that his eyes started to burn slightly, until his vision wavered, for no more than a split second, when it suddenly was too much. He let out a harsh pant and grabbed Stan's thighs instinctively as whiteness burst from his tip, messily splattering the floor, coating his brother's fingers with thick dribbles that spread all over Ford's length when Stan kept stroking him seamlessly. He finally closed his eyes then, and he let his head fall backwards on his brother's shoulder while he caught his breath, waiting for the waves of pleasure and excitement to subside.  
  
A few minutes passed, only marked by the occasional pecks Stan was still laying on Ford's cheeks. When he finally opened his eyes, Ford was greeted by a shamelessly proud smirk.  
  
"You still haven't told me if you liked your gift or not."  
  
"...I think it's starting to grow on me."  
  
They kissed once more, deeply. Stan wrapped his arms around his twin again and held him close, bringing his own warm appreciation to Ford's attention by shamelessly thrusting his hips against the other's lower back. Ford smiled against Stan's lips, idly smoothing the lapels of his brother's jacket.  
  
"How come you're still fully clothed?"  
  
"Because you're a selfish douche. How about you give me back my glasses and put up a nice show for the audience?"  
  
As an answer, Ford placed a hand flat against his chest and pushed him down on his back. He clambered onto him with deliberate slowness, straddling his hips and bending down to wipe that smug expression off his twin's face in his own way.  
  
"Maybe next time."


	7. An Epilogue of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a small fragment of an [idea for a fic](https://journalxxx.tumblr.com/post/163270051213/awesome-and-emotional-multichapter-fics-that-i) I had some time ago. Although I suppose it makes sense on its own, I'd advise to have a look at the link to understand it better :)

After finishing his shower, Stan went back to the bedroom to find Ford napping on the bottom bunk, hands resting on his stomach and one leg dangling over the side of the bed. He was still wearing the mask, as he had promised he would - with the obnoxious tone and expression of a patient parent indulging a petulant child - after Stan had threatened to spray the whole air tank on his face and flash-freeze his sideburns.  
  
Stan walked up to the bed as he finished drying his hair, his vague, remaining worries duly subdued by the sight of a thin veil of condensation rhytmically clouding and vanishing from the inner side of the mouthpiece. Nevertheless, he bent down to squeeze his brother's shoulder. Ford's eyes opened almost immediately.  
  
"...Mh?"  
  
"Hey. Bathroom's free. You good?"  
  
"...Yes, yes. I was just resting for a moment."  
  
He yawned, took off the mouthpiece and reached out to turn off the air nozzle, countering Stan's annoyed glance with a challenging glare of his own. Stan didn't comment on it, gauging that that was as much as he could hope to get away with.  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yes. Just a mild headache. It's to be expected, I'll be as good as new by tomorrow morning."  
  
Stan grumbled some semblance of agreement. His spine gave a painful twinge and he straightened himself up, massaging his lower back. There would be hell to pay the following day for all that emergency weight-lifting, he could already tell. He sat down on the bed tiredly, waving away Ford's offer to get up and leave the bed free for its rightful owner. He didn't mind the appropriation at all; in fact, in any other occasion, the sight of his brother casually borrowing his sleeping space would have sparked some very questionable trains of thoughts in his head. That entire day had entailed a level of physical closeness that he would have otherwise found very suggestive, but near-death experiences had their way of stripping all the fun from the little joys life bestowed. Stan kept brushing the towel on his head in silence, the unfortunate accidents of the day playing in the back of his head. Ford appeared to be lost in a similar contemplation as he stared intently at the bunk above. It was him who broke the silence, a few minutes later.  
  
"Did you run into any forks while you were carrying me out?"  
  
"No, there was only one path to follow. At least there was no risk of getting lost."  
  
"No strange holes or secondary routes that you couldn't reach?"  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
Ford hummed pensively. "Curious. We didn't see any in the first half of the cavern either. Creatures like the one that attacked us usually hunt rather close to their nest, but we didn't run into it while exploring, nor did we notice any alcoves that could lead to a hidden colony in the cave."  
  
"And how isn't that very good news?"  
  
"There may be one outside. We'll have to scout the outer area surrounding the cave to make sure we eradicate all of them. Or I may be wrong, and there may be no colony at all. I'm not sure, I couldn't get a good look at the creature during all that ruckus."  
  
Stan groaned, glaring at Ford in annoyance. "Dammit, we just barely got out of that hellhole, and you're already planning another trip?"  
  
"Well, of course. We came here to look for anomalies, and that's exactly what we found. There wouldn't be any point in leaving before getting to the bottom of it."  
  
"Well, not dying, for one. That's always a good starting point."  
  
Ford rolled his eyes. "Of course, we're not going to rush in there again without due preparation. Judging by the locals' tales, I was expecting some sort of magic curse against curious tomb raiders. The kind of threat we found involves a much more physical brand of aggression. We'll need to reconsider our weaponry and set up the biological scanner-"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, but honestly this looks a bit too big for the two of us. If you are right and there is a nest, there might be hundreds of those face-huggers, and I don't feel like playing pest control with a swarm of flesh-eating aliens."  
  
"I don't think their number should be too exaggerated. The local fauna seems to be numerous and varied, while a large amount of such vicious predators would have practically exterminated it in a very short time."  
  
"...Right." Stan sighed, chiding himself for even trying to oppose his brother with logical reasoning. He never came out on top on that field. "How about we just... go back to the village and report instead? We tell them there's a scary carnivorous monster in the cave and that they should stay very, very far from it, which they already kind of do, and that's it."  
  
"That may make them more cautious, but it wouldn't solve the problem. Need I remind you that that thing or its relatives have already claimed victims in the past? And that most of those victims- " Ford's tone raised slightly, cutting off Stan as he opened his mouth to reply, "were curious kids who knew perfectly of the legends and decided to explore it anyway out of sheer curiosity? That sounds familiar to you too, I bet."  
  
Stan's mouth snapped closed and he shoot an irritated glance at his brother, who always seemed to know exactly which heartstrings to pull. He shook his head, raising his hands in mock surrender.  
  
"Fine! Fine, we're dealing with the man-eating octopus. But we need to set some serious ground rules first."  
  
Ford raised an eyebrow, becoming the very embodiment of skeptical surprise. "Ground rules?"  
  
"Yeah. First and foremost-" Stan continued testily, pointing a warning finger at his brother, "no more self-sacrificing bullshit talk. For any reason. Seriously Ford, what the hell was that about? Even people in horror movies know that splitting up in dangerous situations is an incredibly stupid idea."  
  
Ford frowned and crossed his arms, somehow managing to look down on his brother even while lying on the bed. "That depends entirely on the circumstances. If two people are stuck in a dire situation with no escape route, then yes, teaming up grants the highest chance of survival. But if one of them is somewhat incapacitated, and the other has the chance to reach out for help, then-"  
  
"Are you fucking nuts? What did you want me to do, dump your unconscious ass in a corner and stroll out while the octopus was busy munching your face?"  
  
"Of course not, you knucklehead!" Ford's tone and expression was getting increasingly aggravated, but Stan couldn't really bring himself to care about that, not with the kind of idiocies his brother was suggesting. "I mean that I should have stopped earlier, when I first suggested it! If you hadn't been so goddamn insistent on dragging me along-"  
  
"Oh right, sorry! You had everything under control, didn't you? No matter if you couldn't string two sentences together without gasping for air, totally a minor and insignificant inconvenience that one-"  
  
"In fact yes, it was, because I wouldn't have needed to do anything but remaining very still and very quiet, measuring my breaths and blasting whatever tried to approach me - all things that I'm very proficient in, in case you haven't noticed. But no, you just had to waste both our time, air, and energy by forcing me to march onwards! If the tunnel had been longer-"  
  
"If the tunnel had been longer- "Stan burst out loudly, positively seething, "I would have run out of air, collapsed and been eaten alongside you by the stupid alien. And you know what? I find that possibility infinitely preferable than making my way out, coming back with your precious help, and finding where I left you only a goddamn pair of glasses, or a bloody piece of cloth, or fucking nothing whatsoever. Because I've already lost track of you twice by mistake, and it took me no less than a goddamn decade to have a single shot at finding you again after each time, and I have the strong suspicion that the next time it happens, it will be the last. So please excuse me if I try to stave off the possibility for as long as I can!"  
  
Ford blinked up at him in shock, and it was only after silence fell that Stan realized that his tone had grown way past the conversational level. He huffed in frustration, throwing the towel on his head again, more to block Ford out of his visual field than to do anything else. He felt his brother shift on the bed, moving to sit up beside him on its edge. When Ford spoke again, his tone held none of the anger of their previous argument.  
  
"In all honesty, you're the last person who should be telling anyone off about self-sacrifice, don't you think?"  
  
It took Stan a frankly embarassing amount of time to catch onto the meaning of his brother's words. He shook his head grimly.  
  
"That was different. He would have never kept his word if you had given him what he wanted, and everyone was going on about apocalypses, end of the world, and all that magic balderdash... That was really desperate."  
  
"True." Ford's gaze dropped to the floor as he absently rubbed his palm on his knee. "Is that where you draw the line? Is immolation only justified in exchange for the safety of the universe?"  
  
Stan snorted, barely managing to avoid bursting out laughing in his brother's face. "I don't give a fuck about the universe, Ford."  
  
"...No, I suppose you wouldn't. You did spend thirty years trying to figure out how to tear it apart, and almost succedeed, after all."  
  
Stan rolled his eyes. "You just have to keep bringing that up, do you?"  
  
Ford chuckled, raising his hand apologetically. "I'm just trying to say that there are some blatant double-standards in your moral code, you'll surely agree."  
  
"First off, I'm simply offended by the fact that you think I have one. Second, what's so difficult to understand? I just don't like problems in my family." He shrugged, genuinely amused by Ford's surprised expression. "You fell into a wormhole, so I had to bring you back, the rest of the universe be damned. And the triangle was going to wreck your head, and- and he was after the kids. A right hook to the eye was the least he should have expected."  
  
Ford frowned slightly, and he seemed to pick his next words with an uncharacteristic slowness. "I thought I didn't fit in that particular group at that point in time. You said so yourself."  
  
"And you believed it?" Stan sighed, looking at Ford in exasperation. "God, now I see how you got in such deep shit with that demon. You shouldn't believe everything sketchy conmen whisper in your ear, you know."  
  
"I'm pretty sure you didn't whisper anything. You barked it in my face in the middle of the hallway. Loudly. Jabbing me with your finger."  
  
"And here I thought you'd appreciate the figure of speech."  
  
The corners of Ford's mouth turned upwards for a brief moment, then they fell back to a somewhat somber expression. He kept staring at the floor, his tone dropping lower still as he spoke again.  
  
"...I did mean it though. When I told you to pack your stuff and leave. Not that it didn't start weighing on my mind within the next two days, but... mostly I regretted the tone of our reunion, and my rather aggressive behavior. Not my position, nor the correctness of my judgement."  
  
"...Look, if this is some convoluted way to make me bail out on you the next time something tries to eat you, I guess you may be onto something, but-"  
  
Ford shook his head and continued, barely acknowledging Stan's interruption.  
  
"As to what happened in the Fearamid... It was our only chance to get an advantage on him. The stakes were too high not to give it a shot. It just... made perfect sense to try, so I took your idea in stride as promptly as I would have if my own life had been on the line. I... must say though... that if I had imagined how sour such a victory would have felt, I wouldn't have been so resolute."  
  
Stan didn't quite know what to make of that bizarre set of declarations, which seemed to warrant a mixed bag of comforting and punching. He reached some sort of compromise with an awkward pat on his brother's forearm, but that didn't stop that unexpected burst of sincerity.  
  
"I thought it was the right move. I still do. The safety of the kids, the destruction of a vicious and powerful entity, the very existence of an entire universe... This is worth more than any single person's life, for sure. Although, as of now, I wouldn't even consider trading yours for anything less. So... I suppose I can see your point in this whole thing."  
  
Stan blinked, his confusion turning in mild disbelief. The whole point of that long-winded speech, which included a few heartfelt confessions and a couple of backhanded appreciations, was a simple agreement. Apparently Ford hadn't lost his knack for ill-timed and unfortunate wording. Yet, Ford's words held a kind of honest affection than Stan had only dreamt of hearing for longer than he could remember, and it was more than enough to make him smile in return.  
  
"...Good. We have a deal then."  
  
"Yes. And it goes both ways, obviously."  
  
"I can work with that."  
  
They both smiled, and Stan felt the tension of the earlier argument finally vanishing. Only to be replaced by a different kind of tension, one that was both new and familiar. It had been happening for quite some time, without warning, whenever they happened to look at each for few seconds too long, or to stand a bit too close in the cramped spaces of the ship, or for no discernible reason at all. Stan had long since acknowledged the nature of that tension, and whether Ford had recognised it or not, there was doubt on the fact that he was aware of it too, to some degree.  
  
"Well, I really need a shower too. Do you mind fixing dinner in the meantime?"  
  
Like almost every time, Ford gracefully shattered the atmosphere and stood up almost immediately, clearing his throat and heading to the opposite side of the room to rummage in his drawers. Like almost everytime, Stan didn't have the balls not to roll with it.  
  
"Sure. I'll try frying that weird eel the people at the village love so much."  
  
"Sounds good." Ford piled a few clean clothes on one arm and strode to the door, but he stopped and hesitated on the threshold. He turned to look at his brother for a moment, his tone suddenly softer and more throughtful. "Thank you."  
  
Stan smiled. That, at least, had no awkward nuances or hidden meanings that he couldn't see upfront.  
  
"Any time, Sixer."


	8. Holdover

He runs, stumbles and staggers, then runs again, through the streets, atop the stairs, in the very tallest building of the town. He drops off his burden on the floor, his fingers perfectly steady and precise as they undo the clasps of the case, much unlike his laboured, shaky breaths. The black metal of the gun shines in the surreal glow of the environment, the comforting weight of the weapon settles neatly on his shoulder with a practiced gesture. It clicks, hums and flashes as the shot charges, almost soothingly so with the familiar procedure he knows by heart and he engineered himself. He exhales, he rests the barrel of the weapon on the window sill, he aligns his eye with the gun sight. He aims at his target, sharply visible despite the chromatic chaos of the world. He grits his teeth, whispering to himself, steeling his entire body for the recoil of the shot. He pulls the trigger.  
  
He misses. He doesn't have time to even begin to process the devastating consequences of his mistake because the next thing he knows, the entire world crumbles around him, literally and metaphorically. The next thing he knows, he's buried in debris, ridicule, and pain. Lots of pain. The next thing he knows, he's shuddering uncontrollably on a floor that is as dark and cold as his mind, inhaling the suffocating smell of his own singed clothes and hair, tasting the stinging flavor of his own blood. At regular intervals electrons rush through every fiber and tissue of his body with excruciating speed, burning cells, disrupting synapses, triggering spasms. He screams, seizes, drools, heaves, breaks and lies, with the constant background noise of the triangle's giggles. He crawls onto his knees between pained gasps, reaching in his coat to grasp the small object poking at his chest through his pocket. He stands up, aims the memory gun at the eye, shoots. The flash bounces off the pupil as if it's made of glass. He shoots and shoots, each gleam just as ineffective as the previous ones, each flare eliciting more infuriating snickers, more shrill laughs, more noisy cackles. He folds on himself, completely and utterly overwhelmed, he clasps his palms over his ears and turns away, childishly trying to erase the monster from his world just by shutting him out.  
  
The noise ceases. The sudden silence and stillness of the air shock him nearly as much as electricity did. He opens his eyes, and sees a man standing a few feet away from him. A man with his clothes, his face, and an utterly void and emotionless expression. Ford takes a few steps towards him before stopping and raising the gun. He shoots, not for a second, not on a whim, but for minutes, with resolve and patience, watching as the light engulfs his twin's features, melting him away piece by piece, thought by thought. When he releases the trigger, ages later, nothing has changed, the man wears the same empty expression as before. Ford walks up to him, drops the gun, clenches his fist, and punches him.  
  
The man stumbles backwards, head turned to one side from the force of the blow, and does nothing. His body is slightly sagging to one side, resembling more a dull mannequin than a conscious human being. He punches him again, and this time he grabs him by his lapel to keep him within arm's reach, and hits again. He doesn't stop. His fist flies forwards and backwards repeatedly, until his knuckles hurt from the harsh impacts with his twin's cheekbones, until warm blood is trickling through his clenched fingers. There is no reaction from the other man, only the elastic bouncing of his head from side to side after each blow, as if he was made of rubber, yet it is not rubber that makes that wet, crunchy sound when his nose creaks out of place. Ford strikes and strikes, until he nearly runs out of breath, until the other man's legs suddenly give out and he crumbles to the floor on his hands and knees.  
  
Ford kneels down as well and takes a few deep breaths, calmly. Calmly, he grabs his brother by his short hair and smashes his forehead against the floor. Once. Twice. Again. Unlike his previous punches, there is a rhythm to his hits now, an even, mechanical sequence of identical gestures that don't really make him tired, don't really require any emotional involvement. It just keep happening, the shiny stain on the dark floor just keeps growing, his arm just keeps moving. Nothing can quite ruin the soothing regularity of those motions, the consistent thumping echoing around them, only occasionally tainted by the sharp sound of a cracked bone-

  
Ford's eyes snapped open suddenly, and for a moment he was only aware of the blood rumbling in his ears, of the short breath and quick pulse weighing on his chest, of the rough sheets tightly crumpled in his fist. The cool, dim light of the Arctic white night filtered from the porthole, casting a faint glow on the silhouettes of the tight bedroom, hosting countless relics, tools and whatnots shoved, stacked and hung in every available nook and cranny. He unclenched his fist with a snappy gesture, then he run his palm over his face, peeling the remnants of the dream off his skin. He took a few moments to steady his breath, then he sat up and climbed down the ladder soundlessly. Stanley was sleeping undisturbed in the lower bunk, still huddled fully on the side of the bed furthest from the wall - Ford's side, since he usually woke up first. Ford had found his access to the bed unsurprisingly blocked the evening before, surely a childish retaliation on Stan's part after the day's argument. Ford was well above such sorts of petty revenge and he had simply slipped in his own bunk without raising an eyebrow.  
  
He went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, his mind clearing by the second. What had the argument even been about? Some- some insignificant discussion about a broken piece of equipment Stan was in charge of maintaining, which he obviously had not maintained according to Ford's precise instructions. Unsurprisingly, Ford had blithely added, considering Stan's scarce attitude for thorough maintenance, his wrecked portal a testimony of that. And that had rapidly snowballed into a snappy trade of blows and insults about- about too many familiar topics.  
  
Ford sighed, drying his hands on the towel. For the first time in decades, he was completely, reasonably sure that his dreams were only just dreams. No thinly veiled outerwordly threats, no outright torture sessions, no ominous possession attempts. Just restless synapses firing blanks. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to dismiss them as easily as he would have in his youth. In that particular instance, it didn't take 12 PhDs to make a reasonable guess at the source of that bout of oneiric violence. Still, Ford would have hoped that his mind didn't need to remind him of how much he used to hate his brother at any available occasion.  
  
He supposed he should just give it time. Things had already improved between them, considerably so, if one didn't stop to think too hard about the peculiar form their closeness had taken. They still hit some rocky patches now and then, but overall they had little to complain - albeit they always did so quite vocally. Ford walked back to the bedroom and moved to climb into his bunk again, when something brushed against his knee, so softly that it could have almost been casually. Stan shuffled under the sheets briefly, freeing up Ford's space and rolling on his side to face the wall wordlessly.  
  
Ford considered it, and considered repaying his brother with the same childish denial he had received. He didn't consider it for long. Wordlessly, he slipped under the covers, adjusting himself as comfortably as he could in the tight mattress, back to back with Stanley. His mind lingered on on the last shreds of the dream for a moment, then on the broken component he'd have to buy at the first port, then on the bigger bed they'd also have to buy before crippling their backs permanently, then his thoughts melted with the warmth seeping from the mattress beneath.


	9. Late at Night

He wakes because the mattress sags. The springs creak ever so softly, and his side slumps against the solid shape of a body sitting on the edge of the bed. It's enough to wake him, but not enough to alarm him these days. He waits, almost falls asleep before remembering to acknowledge the familiar disturbance.  
  
"...Stan?"  
  
It comes out as a slurred mumble. It doesn't matter. His brother doesn't reply or move anyway, for an undefined stretch of time. Ford almost dozes off again, but then the mattress dips a bit more, and suddenly there are hands cradling his jaws, and lips brushing his own. Stan's skin is freezing, chilled by the unforgiving subpolar night, but his breath is warm and wet, and tinged with the heavy taste of smoke. The kiss is leisurely, unhurried. Stan's nose keeps poking Ford's cheek like a pointy icicle, his fingers draw small shivers as they tickle his neck. The contrast is shocking, and it rouses Ford immediately.  
  
Soon, however, it's over. Stan draws back and stands up, presumably to lie down in his bunk. But it's been too much, and too little, and Ford's hand abandons its cozy cocoon of blankets to grasp his brother's jacket. The mattress sags again. The chilled hand is back, this time covering Ford's own. They don't speak, but the question is clear. It's been there for a while, constantly underlying every shared meal, every crossed border, every split pain, exploding like a thunder with the first whispered truths and bold caresses. But now, Ford realises as he pulls Stan to him, the answer is there too, as real as the sound of the waves and the complete darkness that wrap them.  
  
Stan bends down to kiss him again, but Ford stops him. He pulls at the damp jacket, and Stan understands. The sound of the zip is almost deafening, the soft rustling of the other layers of clothing is kinder to Ford's ears. The covers lift, and Stan carries a waft of cold air with him as he makes himself comfortable on the small bunk. His core is warm, thankfully. Ford's hands immediately find his brother's and press them to his own chest; he can feel the different temperature even through his sweater. They stay like that for a while, facing without seeing each other, with no distraction other than the regular rhythm of their breathing, or the tiny, lazy circles Stan's fingers draw on Ford's chest. Then, without thinking, Ford kisses him, and that's all they've been waiting for. The small space between them disappears as they hug, and Stan's hands go to the hem of Ford's sweater to lift it. It's harder than it should be, especially considering that neither of them seems to realize that their mouths need to part, however shortly, for the task to be accomplished, but the sweater eventually does come off. The trousers are Stan's next target, and with those, one last question: his fingers slip down to pinch the seam of Ford's underwear, and pause. Ford replies by mirroring the gesture minus the pause, and soon they both wiggle free from inopportune barriers.  
  
And then, it's all new, at least for Ford. There have been kisses, closeness, cheekiness, those are familiar. But the astounding, engrossing sensation of a whole naked body pressed against his, and a very fuzzy one at that, where each hair tickles and brushes and heightens even the faintest touch, is an experience Ford never knew he needed. Stan's hands are raw, his skin and fingers chapped and hardened by far too hard weather and work, yet Ford loves the sharp trails they leave on his skin. Their chests touch, their legs tangle, their groins brush, and the tiny speckle of world Ford can perceive is entirely occupied by Stan, the pitch black and silent room sealing them entirely from everything else. Stan's tongue is relentless, and so are his teeth, nibbling and teasing every corner of Ford's mouth. He gasps, and it's the only thing that reminds him he needs to breath. He fondles his brother, too, his hands roaming along his sides, palming the outline of his shoulders and spine, savouring how the muscles flex and relax under his touch.  
  
Without warning, Stan rolls on top of him. His presence becomes even more massive, weighing down on Ford and trapping him against the mattress. His mouth attacks Ford's neck, licking and sucking every inch of skin he can find, regardless of the hint of stubble that's already growing. He finds Ford's pulse and settles there, teasing that tender spot with kisses and nips. Ford gasps, revelling in the sensation as well as the wet, sucking sounds Stan's attentions produce, as loud as whip cracks in their tiny personal void. He grabs at Stan, at his loins, at his ass, sinking his fingers in the soft flesh. As if he's been waiting just for that, Stan immediately plants a knee between his brother's legs and pushes up, his thigh rubbing against Ford's cock roughly. It's jarring, enough to make Ford scrunch his face and clench his teeth as if he was in pain. He doesn't make a sound though, barely, and Stan doesn't seem satisfied with that, as he starts to pinch and graze Ford's nipples too, with those tantalizingly rough fingers of his. Ford's mouth hangs open, in a way that would undoubtedly make him ashamed if Stan could see him, and he blinks in the darkness, panting from over-stimulation and genuine exertion. He grasps Stan's waist and starts rocking his hips against him, dragging his cock against that solid thigh with that ticklish hair that may very well cost him his sanity. It's undignified and animalistic, and laughable too, judging by how Stan's lips curve in a smile against his neck, but self-respect is but an afterthought in that maddening, heated frenzy. His ears rumble with the rush of his own blood and open-mouthed breaths, his thighs clench around Stan's needily, his mouth seeks and founds Stan's possessively, his nails dig in his back, and suddenly he's coming, spilling wetness on his own abdomen, choking and chasing that electric pleasure blindy. He bites his lip to keep quiet, quiet, but suddenly Stan wraps his hand around Ford's dick and squeezes, as he's still twitching, and earns himself a vocal moan that blasts away the remains of Ford's decorum.  
  
He trembles and keeps trembling even after it's over, feeling torn between the impulse to curl up and sleep, and immediately jump out of the bed and do a few dozens sit-ups. He does neither. He keeps still, in a mild state of mental impairment, while Stan pulls up from his body, apparently getting on his hands on knees, and pants as well, fully intent on doing something that Ford, from his limited perspective, could only describe as "vibrating". His brain finally does the math when he hears him grunt - a harsh, rumbling noise that seems to arise from the deepest part of his chest and that sends Ford's imagination spiralling further - and then more sticky, hot strands land on Ford's belly. For just a moment, he feels the strong, compelling urge to dip his fingers and stir the unbecoming mess on his body. He doesn't.  
  
Still, they don't talk. It's too dark to feel awkward, if that makes any sense, and their panting subsides almost at the same pace. The mattress bends to the side, and then Stan's rubbing an undefined piece of clothing over their bodies, cleaning the mess. Ford feels a twinge of regret at that, he feels like he could have appreciated those warm traces over his skin for a few moments longer, and he definitely feels like he shouldn't question that specific thought any further. Stan drops heavily on the bed, and breathes. In those breaths, not quick, not slow, very, very regular, somehow Ford reads a whiff of uncertainty, for the first time in the whole night. He scoots closer, and rests a hand on Stan's nape, fingers slipping through his short hair. Nothing has changed, he thinks, and he whole-heartedly believes it. Nothing has changed, and he loves him. Maybe he should say it, but he doesn't. Instead, he keeps stroking, massaging his brother's nape with his pads, reassuring them both, until Stan hugs him and his breathing becomes less regular and more certain.  
  
He doesn't know who falls asleep first.


End file.
